“Not at all.” With an appreciative sigh, Greta closed the box. “This is too good to refuse, but I don’t need a gift for helping a friend. It’s reward enough to know that the great Arvid Harnack, prince of academic royalty, needed my help to get a job.”
They shared a smile. Over the years their old rivalry had mellowed into friendly banter. With more menacing enemies threatening them both, it made no sense not to be allies.
Then Arvid’s smile faded. “Before I’m allowed to start work, I have to attend a Nazi boot camp. It’s meant to toughen me up physically and bludgeon my political beliefs into proper alignment.”
“That’s dreadful. How long must you be away?”
“A week. One week too many.”
Greta wondered how Arvid would be able to conceal his true feelings from officers trained to detect and snuff out dissent. “By Wednesday you’ll be cursing me for getting you the job,” she said with false levity. “You’re going to demand this gift back.”
“The vodka, anyway,” he deadpanned, but his expression was bleak.
Greta next saw Mildred a few days after Arvid returned home from his indoctrination. They had met for a walk in the Tiergarten, one of the few places they could talk without fear of listening devices picking up their conversation. When Greta asked if the camp had been as terrible as Arvid had expected, Mildred shook her head. “Worse, much worse,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “He refuses to tell me the details because he says he wants to spare me the grim images that he can never forget.”
Greta shuddered. “Poor Arvid.”
“He came home uninjured and undaunted, so whatever he went through, it wasn’t as horrible as what Natan Weitz suffered. The experience only strengthened Arvid’s antipathy for the Nazis. He’s stronger than they are, with their propaganda and calisthenics and false science. They tried to make him one of their own and they failed.”
“Some people simply can’t conform upon command,” said Greta. “I’m thankful I’m one of them.”
“So am I,” said Mildred fervently. “Anyway, Arvid is home now, nursing sore muscles and preparing to start work at the Ministry of Economics—while we work at the American embassy.”
Greta nodded. Ambassador and Mrs. Dodd were hosting a tea on May 8 in honor of the American novelist Thomas Wolfe, who had come to Berlin to promote Rowohlt’s German translation of his renowned novelLook Homeward, Angel. The Dodds had already invited many American dignitaries and members of the press corps, but Martha had asked Mildred to select the German guests, “intellectuals who are both brilliant enough to impress Thomas Wolfe and brave enough to attend,” as she put it. In recent months, as Mr. Dodd’s antipathy for the Nazi regime had become more apparent, German diplomats had begun avoiding the American embassy, returning marked “out of town” invitations to various events. Loath to embarrass their honored guest with a flop of a party, Martha had begged Mildred to create a guest list on the ambassador’s behalf. Mildred was perfect for the job, Martha insisted. Not only did she and Arvid know the German literati exceptionally well, but she had also published several scholarly articles and had given numerous lectures about Wolfe’s work.
After conferring with Arvid, Mildred had decided to invite only known and suspected opponents of the regime. At the tea, she, Greta, and Adam would circulate among the journalists, authors, and editors, carefully evaluating their political beliefs and establishing contact with those who seemed suitable candidates for a literary resistance. Forging ties to other groups would help them evaluate the strength and extent of the anti-Nazi movement, and eventually to share information and collaborate on resistance actions.
But first, the guest list.
Linking arms as they strolled, pretending to be engrossed in the rosy buds and pale green flush of spring that had recently swept over the park, Greta and Mildred quietly suggested names, debated them, rejected some, added a select few to their mental list. Once, in a secluded grove of linden, Mildred suggested they sit for a while, but the only bench in sight was painted yellow to indicate that it was reserved for Jews. Not surprisingly, no one sat upon it.
“Shameful,” Greta muttered, turning away as anger boiled up inside her. What would the Nazis ruin next? Whenever Greta thought they had exhausted all the possible ways to humiliate German Jews, they surprised her with something new, something more cruel.
Greta and Mildred walked on until they were satisfied with their guest list, parting with a mix of hope and apprehension for how their fates might intertwine in the days to come.
On the afternoon of the tea, Adam met Greta at her flat and they went off to Tiergartenstrasse 27a together. “Arvid won’t be attending,” Greta told him as they approached the luxurious residence, where several cars were lined up in the driveway. Each driver paused at the gate, where a guard examined their invitation before allowing them to pass beneath the elaborate ironwork arch. “He thought it would be unwise to mingle publicly with Americans so soon after accepting his new post.”
“He’s married to an American. That ought to be excuse enough,” said Adam. “He shouldn’t have taken the job if it meant shunning his friends.”
“Except that he wants to keep a roof over their heads and food on their table,” said Greta. “He doesn’t have the luxury of turning down work. And now he’ll have access to invaluable financial and economic information—where the Nazis are keeping their money, how they’re spending it, what their intentions may be. Would you really have him walk away from that?”
Grudgingly, Adam admitted that he would not.
At the front entrance, Greta and Adam were shown inside by Fritz, the stocky blond butler. Although she had never heard him utter a single “Heil Hitler,” Fritz struck Greta as a burgeoning fascist, sly and suspicious, increasingly grim-faced as relations soured between the Reich and the homeland of the people he served. She could not give a reason for her instinctive distrust, but she would not discount it either.
Adam offered Greta his arm and escorted her up the grand staircase to the main hall, where Martha and her mother met them. Martha, bright-eyed and smiling, was smartly dressed in a pale mauve suit with white satin trim and a flared skirt. Beside her, white-haired Mrs. Dodd seemed small, wan, and very tired, but she was unfailingly gracious as she greeted each new arrival.
“I’m counting on you to help loosen up some of the tension around here,” Martha confided to Greta. “I asked Mildred to invite interesting and intriguing people, but I haven’t seen a grimmer bunch of Germans gathered in one place since the Night of the Long Knives.”
Greta glanced around the room. “I’m sure everyone’s just anxious for Thomas Wolfe to arrive.”
“I hope you’re right. I wanted amusing conversation, an exchange of stimulating views, not miserable scowls better suited for a funeral.”
As Martha turned to welcome another guest, Adam and Greta moved on. “Something tells me Martha doesn’t know how interesting and intriguing these particular guests are,” he said in a wry undertone as they joined the crowd.
“That’s because Mildred and I didn’t explain our criteria for choosing them,” said Greta. “Mildred wanted to, but Arvid and I thought she would be a more convincing hostess if she had nothing to hide.”
She exchanged a smile across the ballroom with Bella Fromm, formerly the diplomatic reporter for theVossische Zeitung, now with theContinental Post. Glancing to her right, Greta nodded discreetly to Max Tau, the renowned German-Norwegian editor and author. As a Jew, he had taken to prefacing his job titles with “erstwhile” whenever he was obliged to mention them in mixed company. She hoped he continued to work in secret.
